


can almost taste the gunmetal

by abbyleaf101



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Edging, F/M, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pre-Campaign, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-26
Packaged: 2019-10-16 07:09:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17545043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbyleaf101/pseuds/abbyleaf101
Summary: What if the circus went to Whitestone and Molly performed the Terrible Tinkered of Tal'Dorei, and the Tinkerer himself has some constructive criticism to offer





	can almost taste the gunmetal

**Author's Note:**

> Well, here it is. A decade in fandom and this is my first kink meme fill. I'm blaming all of you and also Taliesin. 
> 
> Original prompt [here](https://criticalkink.dreamwidth.org/3194.html?thread=447098#cmt447098)

This was not the first - and likely wouldn't be the last - time Molly had been hauled up in front of the city authorities.  
  
It had never been so _interesting_ , before, though. And that included the fake royalty incident.   
  
There were some set pieces the Circus always played. Fortune telling. Fire spinning. Very large people picking up very heavy things in not many clothes. A little friendly theft. Things without which a trip to the circus would feel incomplete. The Terrible Tinkerer of Tal'Dorei was one such bit, full of intrigue and terror and doomed romance and enough jump scars to leave anyone a few gold lighter than when they went in. Possibly they should have reconsidered when they passed into Tal'Dorei proper, but well - Molly can barely remember the name of the town they're currently in, nevermind anything so trifling at major land borders.  
  
Besides, if he had, he wouldn't be here.   
  
Here, being: at the foot of the Council table, coatless, and very self conscious of the gaping neckline of his blouse.   
  
At the head of the table, leaning against the arm of the council chair, hip cocked and one hand resting thoughtful on his chin, the Lord de Rolo, round glasses on the bridge of his nose and white hair, salt and pepper stubble, cravat. Looking for all the world as though he should have a riding crop, and Molly has to suppress an involuntary shiver at the thought.   
  
He’d caught, on the edge of hearing as he waited to be see, snippets of conversation. “ - harmless,” which seemed to bode well, and “slander,” which seemed less so, and finally the deep, honeyed voice of a woman, chiding. “ _Do_ try not to break this one, darling, it always leaves such a mess,” which could be either.   
  
“I have to admit,” the Lord de Rolo finally spoke, an elegant eyebrow raised. “That was one of the more inspired versions of that story I’ve heard. Well done on those sound effects - I trust no-one was actually firing a firearm back there?”  
  
“Oh, no,” Molly assures, “Pyrotechnics, on the other hand…”   
  
The Lord de Rolo snorts, and rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger under his glasses, pinches the bridge of his nose. “I suppose that is the best one can hope for.”   
  
“Probably,” Molly answers the rhetorical mutter, and grins unrepentant at the look he’s given. He’d have grinned anyway, but he thinks he can detect amusement lurking somewhere underneath all the starch.   
  
“You lose points on originality, though,” the Lord continues, definite amusement now, although it’s not at the precise context of this moment; some joke somewhere that Molly can’t see, some hidden irony. Perhaps casting the red eyed tiefling had been a little tired. But, again - it got him here. “I remember rather more black smoke and less of the smell of rotten eggs.”   
  
The reminder - that he’s standing in front of the man, the Terrible Tinkerer, is… It’s heady and frightening and delicious, and Molly can almost taste gunmetal heavy on his tongue. The thick, cloying taste of adrenaline and arousal.   
  
“Good to know,” Molly murmurs, and watches; grey eyes, grey beard, warm hands. “But.” There it is; the indignant lift of the chin, the interest piqued, engaged. “I got some things right, didn’t I? Clever brain. Clever tongue.” A glance up, away, back again; turned cheek. “Clever fingers, too.”   
  
“Some things,” the Lord de Rolo allows, attention on Molly’s tail, not the demure head tilt or wicked eyes. Good. Oh, this could be - “Clever mouth, I think, instead.” Pink cheeks, which should feel like a victory, and it is, but it’s - oh, it’s a loss too, because -   
  
\- he’s not leading the charge, here. He’s not leading anything, except everything.   
  
“The firm, steady hand?” Molly licks his lips.   
  
“When required.” The Lord looks him up and down, almost lazily bored, admiring, as if they have all day. “Will it be?”   
  
Molly lifts his chin, scoffs. “Why don’t you find out? Put my in my place?”, even though the Lord de Rolo must be able to see the tremble of his knees, ready to buckle at the slightest indication.   
  
Instead - “Come here. No - walk.”   
  
Molly does, watching the Lord de Rolo watch him. It’s not a long walk, from the end of the table to the chair, or a hard one, for all everything feels like moving through syrup, heavy and honeyed. Molly wants to buckle again, when he gets to the Lord’s feet, go down and stay down, press forward; beg, in the prettiest way he knows how, beg and demand. There is a finger on his chin, though, preventing it, not to mention the _eyes_. 

“What’s the point of having you down there where I can’t _reach_.” Molly whines, petulant, turning his face further into the touch; feels his neckline finally lose its battle with gravity and expose a shoulder and collarbone, lets it.   
  
The touch on his cheek, barely there but as compelling as if he’d been bound, guiding gently backwards until thigh met table, and Molly lets the touch keep bending him backwards, splayed out and exposed on the dark, gleaming wood.   
  
“Lovely,” the Lord de Rolo murmurs, a low rumble Molly feels more than hears, chasing aching echoes of frustration across his skin and leaving goosebumps in their wake. The Lord de Rolo leans over him, boxing him in, and Molly whines louder, exposes his throat. The Lord puts his hand there, over the ink, and Molly swallows just to feel the pressure against his windpipe and for the darkening of the eyes it elicits.   
  
“Someone likes to put on a show, I see,” the Lord drawls, with dangerous, promising amusement. He leans down, closer, whispers: “There was something else.”   
  
Molly opens his mouth to ask what, but the Lord de Rolo is kissing him, overwhelming; it is all Molly can do hold on, not that’s it hard - holding on is exactly what he wants to do, anyway. Hold on and roll his hips up into the knee suddenly between his, the hot broad heat. Clutches at clothes, hair, hips; drags him closer.   
  
The Lord, though, pulls back; Molly’s wrists pinned, panting and mussed, needy twitches into empty air. “They called me…” the knee, again, eagerly used, removed; “no mercy Percy.”   
  
Again and again; knee, beg, removed, knee again. The best kind of torture, set ablaze, burning up from the inside. Kisses, too; long, cool drinks of water, banking the flames but never too high, riding the edge of total combustion.   
  
Always one hand on his wrists; Molly wouldn’t move them, couldn’t, held by something infinitely heavier than a hand. But - but it’s good, solid, an anchor when the rest of the world is falling away, just Molly’s body and the frustrated pleasure.   
  
And Molly knows how to do this; how to beg, how to twist, when to whine and strain and coax, knows exactly how long his legs are and how pretty he is when he blushes, sharp canines driven into a lower lip. But - but -   
  
“That’s it,” the Lord de Rolo - Percy - purrs, when Molly forgets to beg and lapses into infernal; when he stops testing Percy’s grip just to feel the squeeze and gives into it, drooling too much to smirk, tears gathering helplessly on his cheeks, chest shuddering.   
  
It isn’t pretty, but this time Percy doesn’t move, and the flames bank higher and higher - raging, until they eat through his skin and out, burning him up.   
He comes back down still whimpering, twitching; tail wrapped around a bicep, spade-tip resting against a throat, tight. A soft chuckle; murmured noises, affectionate and warm. A hand briefly in his hair, and then his wrists are free; gentle fingers over the delicate joints, easing non existent stiffness.   
  
Warm cloth around his shoulders, gentle movement, something solid and supportive under him and something cool to drink. Slowly the warm haze fades; just himself, sitting in the chair, clutching a tankard, Percy’s coat around his shoulders; shirt back into place. He laughs; the Lord de Rolo laughs too, eyes crinkling at the corners, crinkling like laughter is a familiar friend to this man.   
  
“Clever fingers indeed,” Molly quips; his voice is rough, and Percy’s grin is sharp and pleased.   
  
“So I’ve been told.”   
  
Molly laughs, again, unwinds his tail from around Percy, who glances at it and blushes; what if, whispers a voice, but there isn’t time for what ifs. Onwards, always - something else waits for him on the open road, in the next village, as intoxicating as that blush promises to be.   
  
Still - there is one thing. Molly really does like being put on his knees. He curls a leg around Percy’s, blinks up through his eyelashes.   
  
“Want a hand with that?”   
  
“Oh, yes.” That flush, again, for all the eye contact doesn’t waver. How _darling_. “But that’s for the Mistress to decide.” There’s all kinds in that tone; pride, smugness, shyness, sheer and almost painful love.   
  
And heat. And a promise, maybe, in the tilt of a hip, and - fuck. Gustav will just have to do the circus without the Terrible Tinkerer for a night or two. 


End file.
